Cooper slept on the couch that night. And as he slept, he dreamt.

His dreams were never pleasant, but he'd come to expect that over the last two years. He often relived that night at the mansion, or else he'd find himself wandering some nameless cemetery for hours and hours on end, fearful of the dark and the graves and the dead bodies within them. Other nights, Cooper couldn't tell up from down, left from right. He'd wake trembling, the scar on the back of his hand a searing reminder of all he'd survived and left behind.

That night, it wasn't the mansion he dreamt of, but an open, unmarked grave. Before he could get the nerve to peer inside—to get a good look at the body he was sure he would find within—he woke, heart lodged in his throat.

Another nightmare, was his first, weary thought. Just a nightmare.

Cooper turned over on his side with a groan. Calla's bedroom door stood ajar. He could make out the edge of a bed, a curtained window. Not much else.

He immediately fumbled for his phone, shaking off the lingering shadows of his latest nightmare. Calla had texted him over an hour ago, he realized—something about a shift at the morgue. Don't worry about locking up, her message read. He shuddered at the thought of her among the cadavers.

"I am in such deep shit," he breathed. He pushed himself upright with a groan. "You should've stayed away, Coop. You should've known to mind your own damn business."

He continued berating himself as he gathered his things—phone, wallet, keys. He eyed the cake on the kitchen counter with a smirk. Calla could keep it. Let it serve as a reminder that he would be back.

And he would be back, even if that was madness. But madness or not, he'd already thrown away forty bucks on a stupid ticket to that stupid Halloween party in Rochester. Just to prove a point. To himself. To Calla.

If you're going to be reckless, he'd told her, then you're not going in alone.

Vincent was going to kill him if he ever found out about her harebrained scheme. No. That can't happen, Cooper decided. He slipped out of the apartment, quiet as a ghost. Vincent can never know about this. About the bodies and the blackmail and the rest. Not ever.

Which meant Cooper would have to lie to his best friend. Again.

It would be different this time, he reasoned. Vincent had Nat. Vincent had a future. There were already rumors circulating about his prospects in the NFL, about his draft potential. He couldn't afford a scandal.

Calla Parker was the definition of a scandal. A live grenade, one that would destroy everything and everyone in her vicinity. And Cooper, like the big idiot he was, had volunteered to blast himself to bits right along with her.

He contemplated his own stupidity for most of the drive back to Penn State. Every once in a while, an odd laugh would bubble out of him, and he would question his sanity. But if he'd gone insane, he didn't mind. He felt lighter than he had in ages. Like he actually had something to look forward to.

Which was ridiculous. Surely he could find some other way to occupy his time—ideally something that didn't involve encouraging a psychopath to commit heinous crimes. That would be the rational, moral thing to do. But then...

I wanted to make sure there were no loose ends.

Calla had taken care of him, had cleaned up the mess they'd left behind—years ago now—without complaint. Maybe he owed her this. Maybe—

BANG.

Cooper flinched as black smoke began streaming from the hood of his car. "Shit," he breathed, hastily pulling over along the shoulder of the one-way street that led back to his apartment. He cut the engine and leapt out, shrinking away from the fumes. "Shit."

Coughing, he backed away from the smoking mess that was his car and dialed the number of the auto shop that had helped him with his brakes last spring. And the radiator before that. And—

The owner of the shop answered. "Greg speaking."

"Greg. It's Cooper—"

"—Daniels." Of course he'd known. Cooper was basically their only regular customer. Greg whistled under his breath. "Brakes acting up?"

"No, it's—"

"Leaky engine?"

"Ah, well—"

"Or is it the radiator again?"

Cooper took a long look at his car, black smoke curling into the air above his head. And then he sighed. "I think it's better if you come check it out for yourself."

# # #

Cooper had never been the lucky sort. But this, he thought as he watched the tow truck drag his Mustang around the corner, has to be a new low.

"She'll be alright," Vincent assured him, his left arm hanging out the window of his massive truck. "She always bounces back."

It took Cooper longer than it should have to realize Vincent was referring to the husk of his car—and not Calla Parker.

"Greg says she's done for," Cooper mumbled dejectedly. It was the only reply he could muster. He'd lost count of how many close calls the Mustang had survived, how many frigid mornings he'd waited and waited and waited for the engine to spark to life. But this, he knew, was it. His old girl had croaked her last, wheezing gasp—and now she'd gone dark for good.

It's just a car, he reminded himself. A couple thousand pounds of metal.

Vincent clapped him on the shoulder, his iron grip familiar. "She's had a good life."

Memories flickered—of back roads and scenic overlooks and the flat stretch of pavement through the heart of his hometown, past the flower shop and the bank and the school. Rain pummeling the hood of his car, so loud he could barely hear himself think. Vincent's unrestrained laughter in the backseat. Calla beside him, her hair a wild tangle carried on a summer breeze.

"Yeah." Cooper swallowed past the knot lodged in his throat. "She has."

Vincent took the hint and hastily changed the subject. "So. How did last night go?"

Cooper's mind went blank. "Last night?" He thought then of Calla's dark, speculative gaze—made all the more dark by their bleak conversation.

"Yeah, dude." Vincent's fingers drummed out a beat against the steering wheel. "Did Lauren like the cake?"

"The cake," Cooper repeated with a low groan. He swept aside thoughts of Calla like so much smoke. "Shit. I forgot to tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"Lauren dumped me."

Vincent slammed on the brakes. Cooper swore as the seatbelt bit into his shoulder and tossed him back against the leather seat. "She what?" Vincent demanded.

"Dude. Ease up on the brakes."

"Oh, stop deflecting."

Cooper sighed. "This doesn't have to be a big thing." When Vincent opened his mouth to protest, Cooper held up a hand. "Fine. Lauren and I are done. And don't ask me why," he cut in hastily, anticipating Vincent's next question. "She said it wasn't working for her anymore."

Vincent scoffed. "She was all over you last weekend."

Last weekend. It felt like a lifetime ago. "Guess she changed her mind."

"But—"

Cooper made a vague, broad gesture with his hands. "I don't know, Vincent. She wanted to...to..." His hands dropped. "She wanted to talk more. Like, about my baggage, or whatever."

"Your baggage." The truck eased forward as Vincent's eyes returned to the road. "Baggage like..."

Baggage like dead classmates and buried knives in the backyard and an unhinged neighbor with a penchant for murder. Yeah, Vincent. That baggage.

"So you and Lauren never talked about...that kinda stuff?" Vincent asked tentatively.

"I hope you're kidding." Cooper turned to him. Vincent just shrugged. "You're serious."

"Yeah, I'm serious."

"And how would that conversation go?" Cooper asked, skeptical. "Hey, baby. Lauren, light of my life. I don't want to alarm you—" Vincent sighed loudly, "—but I had this neighbor growing up. Calla. You remember Calla, don't you? Yeah, she's the best, isn't she? Well, funny story. You'll definitely laugh. Calla actually killed this other girl I went to school with—"

"Okay, okay." Vincent smacked Cooper's arm with enough force to hurt. "I get the picture."

"Lauren would have me tossed in the looney bin," Cooper grumbled, rubbing the sore spot on his bicep. "Or, y'know. Jail."

Vincent ran his teeth across his bottom lip. "I didn't mean you had to tell her everything. But we almost died, Coop. Twice. It's good to get that shit off your chest."

Cooper just grunted. That all sounded well and good—in theory. But he knew better. He could never tell a soul about what he'd been through. To offload that burden to another, he'd have to dance around the truth, piling on lie after lie.

He couldn't stomach it.

It's good to get that shit off your chest. "Nat knows," Cooper said quietly, analyzing Vincent's profile. "Doesn't she?"

"Nothing incriminating," he promised quickly. "But she knows what we went through, yeah. To an extent." He fidgeted with the radio dial. "I'd never tell her more than what she needs to know. I wouldn't put her in danger like that."

Cooper could hear the implication in his words. "You wouldn't put her on Calla's radar, you mean."

"That's exactly what I mean. Oh, don't roll your eyes," Vincent said, defensive. "Calla's done worse for far less."

You have no idea. "Yeah. I know. I get it."

Vincent heaved a sigh. "Look. I'm sorry. About Lauren, I mean. You could've called me, man. I know breakups suck, but you didn't have to mope around in the apartment alone—"

"I wasn't alone," Cooper interrupted a shade too quickly.

He regretted the words almost immediately. "What does that mean?" Vincent asked. A knowing grin spread across his face. "Did you invite what's-her-face over? That blonde chick from downstairs?"

"No, I did not invite what's-her-face over," Cooper said impatiently. "Stop trying to make that a thing."

"She's hot." Vincent shrugged. "It should be a thing."

"Your mind is a fascinating place."

He laughed. "Fine. I'll bite. What were you up to, then?"

Cooper knew he should lie. He should lie and lie well, and lay the entire conversation to rest. Instead, he shrugged and said, "I drove up to see Calla for a bit."

Vincent slammed on the brakes. Again.

"Brakes," Cooper hissed, shoulder aching. "For the love of all that is sacred, go easy on the fucking brakes."

"Calla." Vincent stared at him, aghast, while the truck idled in the middle of the road. "You get dumped, and she's the first one on your list of people to check in with?"

Cooper flushed. "You don't have to say it like that. It was a split decision."

"I think that's worse."

"How is that worse?"

"It just is." Vincent scrubbed a hand over the layer of stubble that had grown over his jaw. "Things get bad, and you run straight to her."

Cooper was too tired to argue. "I'd love to not have this conversation right now."

The lie is easier, Calla had told him. Maybe she'd been right. Maybe easy was exactly what Vincent needed right now.

The engine rumbled as the truck surged forward once more. "Fine." Vincent blew out a long breath through his nose. "How's Calla these days?"

I can play nice, his tone implied. But the mutinous look in his eyes told a different story. Cooper would have to proceed with caution. "She's...keeping busy," he hedged. Busy killing people. "She's got an internship at the morgue, of all places."

"I bet she loves it there." Vincent wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Seems like it." God, this is awkward. Cooper rubbed the back of his neck. "She roped me into going with her to some party up in Rochester for Halloween weekend."

"Sounds like a bad idea."

"It's a party, Vincent. We've survived plenty of those."

"You know what I mean," Vincent forced out, jaw clenched. "I just want you to be careful."

Cooper rolled his eyes. "Okay, mom."

"I'm serious. Calla..." Vincent hesitated. "Calla is dangerous. She's always been dangerous."

"Understatement of the century."

"And she's a liar," he pushed, ignoring Cooper's warning look. "A damn good liar. She's got her own agenda. Her own way of doing shit. And just because she'll walk away from whatever mess she creates doesn't mean you will." He readjusted his grip on the steering wheel. "You're the one I care about, Coop. Not her."

Cooper knew that. God, did he know it. She'd become a stranger to Vincent that day in the cemetery, the truth laid bare between them, and rather than carry the weight of that loss on his shoulders, Vincent had buried those fragmented pieces of her—of the girl he'd thought she was, the girl who had never existed at all—and never looked back.

Sometimes, Cooper wished he could do the same.

You got out, and there was no reason to drag you back in.

Calla might've seen it that way. Hell, Vincent probably did too. But they didn't know about the nightmares. They didn't know about the bottle of pills on his nightstand—the ones that helped him get through the day without having a fucking meltdown in the middle of campus. Only Cooper knew the truth.

There was no escaping that town, just like there was no escaping her. And he hated her for it. Just a little.

"Alright. No more talk about our exes." Vincent perked up. "Let's go home and make some tacos. I'm starving."

"Uh. Yeah. Or—" Cooper fumbled for a rebuttal. "We could just...go to Los Tacos down the road."

Vincent shot him a curious look. "You're avoiding the apartment. Why?"

Cooper shifted in his seat somewhat guiltily. "The place is a mess. The balloons..."

That startled a laugh out of his friend. "Okay, the balloons were a bit overkill. I had to stay at Nat's last night just to get away from them."

"Lauren loves that shit," Cooper argued, defensive. Then he deflated. "Well, she did."

The thought of their empty apartment—empty, save for those damn balloons—brought back a rush of unwelcome memories. Lauren's righteous anger. Her frustration with him even then, their relationship on the brink of collapse. We've never even spent the night together, she'd accused him. Not once.

She had no way of knowing that the nightmares he suffered from had made it impossible to even consider a sleepover with her. If he'd lashed out in his sleep, if he'd accidentally hurt her—

He shuddered.

Vincent idled at the next stop sign. "It's up to you," he said quietly. "I can help you throw everything out. It'll be a fresh start."

A fresh start. Cooper wasn't sure he deserved that.

He peered down the tree-lined lane to his right. Los Tacos would be the safe bet. They could grab a bite to eat and spend the rest of the day trying to one-up each other on who could consume the most margaritas. He might even let Vincent talk him out of Rochester. A few hours of reasonable conversation would surely scare Cooper off. And Calla would understand. She might even be relieved to be rid of him.

Cooper sighed. "Fine. A fresh start."

Vincent turned left with a small, knowing smile.